#harley quinn x female!reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

acid-ixx · 2 months ago

Text

brutus: both arms cradle you now (villain au concept)

ft. yandere! harley quinn (brief mentions of the poison ivy and catwoman) x gn villain! reader

— masterlist !

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

"so, you're saying you hate the batman, for personal reasons, cupcake?"

you've never expected to have a therapy session with one of your mentors who took you in.

harley quinn, the girl who took you into her abode right after she found you bloodied and laying in a crimson bath of your own one faithful night; death your only comfort.

she, alongside her other company, are well-known people within gotham's criminal gallery. she's known to be obsessed with her ex back then, chasing after his toxic love despite hers being consistently thrown away, she's been seen fighting, or even sometimes helping your father when he's wearing the cowl just to find the joker, she dons clown makeup and displays athletic talent for combat—

she's not the type you'd expect to be well-versed with a person's mental health, with her playful attitude and bouncy steps, but with the way she notices your uncomfortable body language whenever you stumble upon the bat, or how you simmer in silent rage watching him care for his vigilante partners during times they get injured; you'd have to admit she's more than qualified to ask you sensitive questions nobody ought to ask a violent criminal like you.

you don't know it, but you share far more similarities with the girl than you thought; chasing after love never once reciprocated, she has every right to know what makes you so triggered seeing the vigilante every damn time he's within the vicinity.

she has every right because she's the one who saved you when you thought your life would be all over.

when you believed that that day would be the time your soul would leave your body, you'd suddenly awoke to her gentle coos and her retelling her company on how she stumbled upon you. and another woman's palms are on your heated forehead, an unnatural shade of green, yet she helps swipes away your hair for your head as she listens intently to harley's story; she gazes at you just as softly as the other. she's seated right beside a familiar face, too, with cropped, jet-black hair and cat-eyes. it was her expensive duvet that you lay on.

it was there that they coddled you collectively.

they've been your saviors then, and your mentors ever since. it's what you've never asked for, to be cared for by criminals who fought on the opposite side from your fathers, but you've been craving affection your entire life that you'd never once complain about.

now, in the same apartment, her question lingers in the back of your head, you feel goosebumps rise on the topmost layer of your skin, and your heartbeats hasten against the cage of your chest.

despite that, she merely looks over at you, her eyes held a calculating gaze. it's not exactly nerve-wracking like batman's whenever you had your occasional encounters with him, but you can tell she's psychoanalyzing every aspect of your being.

like a therapist for most, but to you, she does so because you know she cares.

gone was the ditzy smile she likes to wear on her playful lips, or the active, bouncy lilt she has whenever she sits upon the swivel chair to talk to you. she stares at you, with piercing blue eyes and furrowed brows, nitpicking every reaction you conjure.

it seems like now's the time she wants to open up with such a sensitive topics.

especially right after the incident where you cried after watching batman speak to the youngest robin, with the sweetest, most poisonous tone you've ever heard from the man. it makes you want to vomit watching it, makes you wish to shrivel outside-in your costume and burn until you're mere embers.

you ask yourself, 'do i hate him?'

truth is...

god, you wish you do. but you're different now.

you have new people to care for you, now and you'd rather throw away that heart wrenching life you had back in the past. batman is nobody to you now, you wish you could lead yourself to believe that he was just your usual opponent, nothing more, nothing less.

yet you merely shift on your cushioned seat, ignoring the blaring telltale signs in your head to stay silent, and reply to her albeit the unsureness in your tone. your words taste bitter, sour, salty, and no way sweet. every unpleasant flavor swirls in your tongue in a cacophony of emotions; and you wish to cry the longer you speak, tongue-tied and wishing to will away the ache in your chest.

"i don't hate him, harley, at least not anymore... it's different, i don't know what to feel about him. maybe it's rage, maybe i want to exact petty revenge on him because of my past with him. don't know. it's all complicated..."

"if it's not hatred, then it's something else, no? you feel something deep within for him, don'tcha, sweetheart? you can't lie to me, you're hurt, and scarred, because of him and his other vigilante partners, i can tell."

she replies, quicker than you do, with empathy and comfort laced in every syllable of her words, and you're taken aback at the kindness and understanding. your eyes flutter away from her worried ones, and you look down to your clenched palms and feel the callouses from all the harsh training you've conditioned yourself to endure, dismissing the way she stands from her chair to walk over to you.

hurt... that's true. you're hurt, and all the emotional scars that lay within you are still open, bleeding, and it aches deeply. every time you build new memories with these people, the pain of the past overpowers whatever improvement you make in life; as if it's haunting and taunting you.

when she kneels down to the level of your lap, just right beneath your vision so you could see her beyond the layers of hair that cover your watery eyes, you see her soft gaze and find her dainty fingers holding your palms, ones you didn't notice dig nails deep into skin until the rivulets of blood escape.

when she squeezes your hands, you follow along the patterns of inhaling and exhaling through her squeezing, a silent session with her to help you calm down from your foreboding emotions; your hastened breaths and brimming tears. you've been so used to ignoring all your emotions that you forget what panic attacks felt like in so long, not until you discover that you've been having small bouts of it every day; not until you realize how it's always your mentors comforting you through every one of your silent sufferings instead of ridiculing you for it.

"calm down, cupcake... i just wanted to know why, so i, alongside the girls, could help you through your emotions. what type of mentors are we if we can't help you, no? you've been so tense lately, we couldn't even see your cute, little smile these days. so don't forget you're still allowed to cry, sweetie... let all your emotions out, 'kay?"

she speaks, with a gentle timbre in her voice, and you allow her to embrace your form, one you didn't realize was shivering until now. yet you still bury your head further into her body without shame and allow yourself respite for once; allow yourself autonomy to be controlled by repressed pain and sorrow you've tried to bury deep into the marrows of your bones and the cages of your heart.

and now you realize why, why you're all crying all the same like last time, and you simply cry for longer at the realization.

because what contrasts with love, was indifference, and never hatred. you once loved batman, bruce, with all your heart because you're his kid, and your momma taught you to love without any expectations. but he sees you with indifference, with nothingness. no care, no emotions or opinions about you, unlike harley's who holds you in her arms and comforts you throughout your lengthened crying.

he doesn't even look at you. the thought bothers you more than ever.

"it's— you're right," you whisper through your hiccups, burying your head further on her stomach as her right hand plays with the strands of your hair, scratching your scalp in a comfortable pattern. she hums as a reply, and allows you to continue.

"i'm hurt, harley... it's so painful just thinking... thinking about how much i'm in pain because of him... but he's, he's—"

"shh, you don't have to force yourself to open up anymore, sweetheart."

when she releases her hold on you, you let out an embarrassingly loud cry, hands swiftly trying to pull her back to embrace you; too desperate to let go, too paranoid that this is all a dream, you wish to sink into her warmth forever.

but she holds you back, just as quickly with her warm palms at your wet cheeks, and looks at you. like you're her savior, her peace, and her everything.

her next sentences satiate the foreboding hunger in your heart, one too starved, one that craved and wished to take what it never have.

she feeds you with love and affection too sweet that it rids the bitter taste in the back of your throat and the bile that slowly rises every time you reminisce.

"i get'cha, sweetie. you wanted something from him you can never have, and when he didn't give you that, it destroyed you entirely you felt like you can never pick yourself right back. been there, done that—"

"—but look at where we're both at now! living the best of our lives, doing fun, risky heists and making ourselves happy with what we think is good for us, no? you get where i'm getting at, right?"

you don't. you feel like melting into her hands and never leaving. she gives and you take, take, and take everything she offers you.

and she knows you don't understand, so she continues rambling knowing you'd grasp into every word she says, not once breaking eye contact with you. she stares fondly, you gaze back reluctantly, unaccustomed to the affection your mentors shower you with. but you don't pull back, she becomes sad and sulky when you do.

you want her to be happy.

"sweetheart, i'm telling you the past is past! get him away from your mind and throw all the thoughts about him away! if you were nothing to him, then he should be nothing to you, easy as pie."

"you deserve better people in your life, like me, and pam, and selina. i can tell you're rough around the edges but that doesn't mean you should strip yourself away from any privilege to be cared for and loved for by people who love you as much as you love them. he's nothing to you now, alright? it's painful, but you can move on from him. i trust you can— you know why?"

harley questions you, with all the confidence in her tone, taking your head to lay it on her body again, positioning it so you could hear the buzz heartbeat, you bury yourself deeper into her warm body and nuzzle into fabric. your heart hastens, but it wasn't panic, it wasn't even fear or hurt, but a drive and motivation that burns deep inside of you; that this is what you always wanted, and needed to protect, and what she generously provided.

all her words echo through your head like it's the truth, your holy grail.

"you have us now, sweetheart. to love, to guide, and to protect you. we're everything you need now."

and you believe her like she's god.

just this once, you do. you're allowed to hope, to dream, and to finally feel special. to be embraced like the fantasies you had in the past, to be held and comforted through every gut wrenching experience, just as she does, now.

for once, you allow yourself to be loved, even if it means it's by the same hands that stain itself with blood, all shed in the glory of your name.

a/n: happy halloween! i was laying in bed and suddenly had thoughts about this. i don't like this drabble at all ngl erm 😭 this post is related to events prior to the out for blood chapter (idk if i should make it canon to the plot or not) and what i said in this fanart post. despite this not being my favorite piece of work, i like writing about other charactersn too though, especially when they're so soft to the mc. so yeah! if you guys like more of this, please do comment since idk what to feel about this.

1K notes · View notes

animasola86 · 27 days ago

Text

F o r g e t f u l 🎀 1 / 4

Your roommate has a dirty secret - you. The only problem is: you can't remember anything about that. And there might be even more problems when you realize just what kind of relationship you have with her.

a dominant woman X a submissive girl with a memory problem

WARNINGS: F!Reader-insert! NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Mistress/pet. Domme/sub. Memory loss. Manipulation. Gaslighting. Praise kink. Dubcon elements. Fingering. Sex toys. Object insertion. Bondage. (More tags on AO3.) WORDS: 5.5k

A/N: Remember: if these tags are not for you, you better turn back now! If you know my other stories, you may be used to my very explicit writing style, but this is still some of the darker stuff, somewhat. It's rough, but there is an actual wlw story buried beneath the depravity, I swear! And: THIS IS FICTION! Nobody got hurt in the making of this series. (By the way, the header is just for aesthetics, it's up to you to decide how Mistress looks like and obviously Reader looks however you want to insert her. I tried my best to keep her neutral.) Another note on the fandom tags: I write characters who could be anyone, so I thought about some kick-ass ladies who may fit the role here. I'm sorry this is not about your favorite character, but maybe it can still somewhat fit? Give it a try :)

1 🎀 2 🎀 3 🎀 4

You're staring at the pictures with your lips parted and trembling, your cheeks warm, a strange tingle in your nape. Your hands are shaking as you file through the prints. They look weirdly professional, good lighting, even better angles, the background is blurry while the focus lies directly on...

You.

It's you in those photographs, you in various positions, you in different outfits... or with nothing at all hiding your curves. Some pictures are just showing certain body parts, some angles you've never seen of yourself, some more flattering than others.

But whatever you see, you can't hide the fact that it arouses you. It's not the subject, you're usually quite self-conscious about taking nudes of yourself (even though you gotta admit that these look quite well made, so surreal that you feel almost proud of yourself), it's actually two things that make your core throb:

One: you are in clearly compromising positions, bent over with your legs spread wide, on your back, bound to the bed with cuffs around your wrists and ankles, or tied up with soft-looking rope in intricate patterns, your body composed in ways you haven't thought possible (or comfortable).

And two: you are always stuffed. There are various objects sticking out of both your cunt and your ass, sometimes there's even something in your mouth that's held open by a spider gag. It varies too, not all holes are occupied all the time, all at once, in some pictures it's just one and it's particularly stuffed and stretched (is that an eggplant?).

Your body reacts more and more as you flip through the thick printed paper. The worst thing about it all:

You can't remember a goddamn thing!

Shame and arousal course through you as you stare at yourself. But you can't put them down, can't stop. In this photo, you're wearing a black leather harness that accentuates your breasts. You're standing, with wide legs, a spreader bar attached to your ankles. You're blindfolded, your arms tied behind your back. It's a series of pictures, you realize.

First from the front, then from the back (your ass cheeks look great with how they're pushed up by the leather straps). You notice something shiny between them: a butt plug with a sparkly diamond base. It's glowing, or blinking as you see in the next picture where the light is gone.

Your insides convulse a little, your muscles clenching around nothing. It's like looking at porn, but you can't ignore the familiarity about the body portrayed. It is undoubtedly yours.

But then again: you've never had anything up your ass, not in your conscious state at least. But here (and in those other pics) you have, and the next print even shows a close-up of the plug in your ass. It's a strangely aesthetic photo considering the unflattering motif and angle, but it certainly does things to you. Though you can't be sure if the tension in your stomach comes from embarrassment, excitement or sheer terror at the revelation that somebody took these pictures of you – and you can't even remember it.

Swallowing hard, you pry your eyes from the prints, your hands still shaking, as you look around the room. Somebody can only be one person. Your gaze scrapes over the shelves around you, full of camera equipment, old-fashioned film containers next to a plastic box full of SD-cards, various lenses and other extras, and then the cameras themselves, three at least, behind glass doors, kept away, like the pictures you found in a large brown envelope hiding in a drawer.

You've been looking for some hair ties, an innocent search, knowing your roommate wouldn't mind, but now you feel as if you've stepped into a different world, uncovering secrets you should have never known about. Even if they are about you.

Taking a shuddering breath, you look back at the pictures in your hands, your cheeks positively aflame now as you trace the blurry lines of your body before the focus shifts to a close-up of your cunt, shiny and reddened, your clit swollen, with black clamps attached to your pussy lips, thin metal chains disappearing off to the sides, holding your folds open while something black and girthy vanishes into your body.

The next pictures show a white-gloved hand gripping the base of the dildo, and you flip quicker through the sheets to create the motion, seeing the toy going in and out of your cunt, guided by the anonymous hand, spreading your core, diving in to retreat with an extra layer of shine before disappearing again, and as you stare at the prints, you can almost feel it moving inside you, a faint memory as your muscles clench and unclench, your arousal building up before it drips into your underwear.

You are torn between being very horny upon seeing these pictures and utterly disturbed. If you could only remember these scenes, then it wouldn't be as bad. But you can't. There's nothing, only fog that slips through your mind's imaginary fingers as you try to catch it, as you try to make sense of this. You feel your heart beating faster while your eyes tear up from staring unblinkingly at the prints in your hands.

This can't be real. Confusion merges with betrayal, your belly feels tense, your heart clenches in rhythm with your walls, your throat closes up as the first tear spills from your lashes.

You let go of the pictures, watching them scatter over the desk and down to the floor, every angle of your body on display, every inch captured in embarrassing detail, your holes filled or gaping, your mouth gagged or stuffed or open, there's drool, there are tears, there's wetness glistening on your skin in almost every shot. Your eyes may be the scariest part staring up at you. They're either glazed over, unfocused, or rolled back and hooded, some bloodshot, some watery, and some look almost defiant, a moment captured in time where you seemingly fought back?

The ones where you're blindfolded are the least terrifying, those are the ones where you can dissociate, where you can imagine somebody else being tied to whatever surfaces there are, tables, benches, beds, chairs, artfully presented, where it's just a body, clad in sexy lingerie and high heels, or adorned with ropes, or in the moments after where the skin is dented by the intricate patterns left behind by the ties.

The close-ups are also getting to you. You've never seen your own cunt or ass up close like this, so again, it could be anyone's holes filled and spread and used by various objects. The sheer amount and variety of them is quite concerning. But it's the unconventional ones that make you shiver, that create that tension in your stomach. The cucumber pushed deep into your ass so only its thinner stalk or whatever its called pokes out. The wide eggplant parting your labia in an obscene fashion, its entire body stuffed into your cunt, creating a slight bulge in your lower stomach.

There's another stack of photos atop a large envelope (the whole drawer seems to be dedicated to just you), and your curiosity gets the better of you after all. It's a series of pictures showing different round objects pushed into your holes. From marbles to ping pong balls to actual tennis balls, they're all shown vanishing into either your ass or your cunt, pushed by a delicate finger clad in a white glove, one after the other, and you can only assume how many would actually fit. It's not a video, you can't be sure, but you can imagine whoever did this to you didn't stop at just one.

Indeed they didn't, as the next photo shows. Another set of hands, also wearing white gloves, is grabbing your ass cheeks and pulling them apart, making your sphincter wink at the camera, before, in the next shot, your hole is gaping, allowing a strange view inside, rosy flesh stuffed with white little balls (you can see at least three, but more are hinted at behind them). You feel a little sick looking at the rest of the series of pictures, where they come back out as your hole puckers, pushing and pushing.

Your body reacts in earnest, your muscles clenching around nothing, deep shivers crashing down your spine. You flip past more of these kinds of photos, until you stop when you see white-gloved fingers poking at your cunt, spreading your lips, gathering your slick that glistens on the surface of the latex gloves, and you let out an audible gasp when the next picture doesn't show them push in, but shows only a wrist (attached to a slender arm) poking out of your stretched hole, gripped by tight skin, suggesting the entire hand is stuck inside you.

Your stomach gives a nervous growl at the sight, your breath hitching in your throat. You swallow thickly, your nostrils flaring as you force yourself to breathe through your nose to calm yourself. The stack of pictures shakes in your hands as you flip through more extreme insertions, more vegetables, some fruits, an entire apple made it up your cunt apparently, while they went from using one cucumber in your ass to at least three, stretching your rim impossibly wide. The sight alone makes your asshole clench violently, and you wonder why you never felt sore after being stuffed so full and spread so wide.

But your body seemingly adjusted, returned to its former state, unharmed, giving no hints at what actually happened to you. Strange. It's almost as if this happened to somebody else after all. But it didn't. It is your body. You may not know your cunt or ass up close, but you recognize the rest, your boobs, your arms, your belly, your legs, your feet, the birthmarks that make you you. It is you in these pictures, in every single one.

Only you.

A strangled sob escapes you as you look over the desk, seeing more and more envelopes, hiding in plain sight, more prints, some smaller, some bigger, all filled with motifs of your body being used in various fashions, one more degrading than the next. Shame settles low in your stomach, like a heavy weight that makes it hard to breathe. Your head is spinning, blood rushing in your ears so loudly you are startled back into reality as you suddenly hear the creaking of the door.

Footsteps follow, before someone clears their throat.

You whip around, dropping the last pictures you were holding, more shots of your stuffed cunt, wet and glistening as it's assaulted by more household items. Your eyes widen when you see your roommate in the door frame, a smug smile on her beautiful face as she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Oh hi,” she says in a nonchalant tone, tilting her head. “What are you doing here, pet?” she adds, and you frown at the nickname, a strange sensation crashing through your nerves.

“I... uh... I was looking for...” you stammer, taking a step away from the desk and the mess you made by dropping all those prints. “A hair tie,” you whisper breathlessly, curling your shaking hands into fists as you stare at her. “What... what are these? Did you take them?” you then ask, your voice trembling as much as your shoulders while you look from her back to the discriminating evidence you found by accident.

Your roommate sighs, unfolding her arms as she walks towards you. She's taller than you, slender and still curvy in the right places, her long hair falling over her slim shoulders. You force yourself to look into her eyes and not get distracted by the cleavage her tight dress creates or how close she is. She stops right in front of you, looking down, a softer looking smile curling her full lips.

“You know I did,” she says quietly, reaching up a hand to caress your cheek with the back of her finger. You shiver under the touch, but don't flinch away. “You agreed to this, remember?”

“No,” you breathe out, blinking quickly as you feel tears welling up in your eyes.

She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Shh, it's okay, pet, don't worry. You did. I would never do anything to harm you,” she whispers, leaning closer until you feel her hot breath on your lips. “You wanted to be my muse, you begged me for it,” she adds, biting her lip sensually before leaning in to press her warm mouth to the corner of yours.

You stiffen, eyes widening, your heart nearly exploding in your chest. You can't remember any of this. Why is she saying that? She is just your roommate!

You moved in only a few months ago, replying to an ad you saw on the bulletin board of your college dorm. A cheap room in a good neighborhood, your own room, away from the distractions of having to live with people you don't like or know that well, it sounded too good to be true. But it was true, and the woman looking for roommates was so nice, so enticing. You met her at a neutral place, to get to know her (fall for her charm), before she showed you the apartment, and you moved in later that week.

It was perfect. Until it wasn't. Not that you noticed it right away. You just never saw her. Now that you thought about it, you can only (barely) remember going to your classes (you are still going to your classes, right?), while the rest of the day is somewhat of a blur. You can't, however, remember going to your job at the coffee shop (do you still have a job? How are you paying for this place?), and the more you try to remember, the more holes come up, black and all-consuming.

You frown as you stare at her. She leans back slowly, watching you. Her hand is on your face, the pointy nail of her thump scraping over your bottom lip as her long fingers caress the shell of your ear.

“No need to worry, pet,” she says quietly, her voice a low soft thrum, rich like honey, that tickles something inside you that you've fought all your life. Why does she keep calling you 'pet'? And why does it affect you so much? “Everything is just fine. And I'm not even mad that you just went into my room like this. I told you you shouldn't, didn't I?”

You swallow as she lowers her hand and closes it around your throat, giving it a gentle squeeze. You feel your pulse throbbing against her palm. “I'm sorry,” you gasp out.

She smiles at you, moving her hand even lower, teasing her fingertips along the neckline of your shirt. “It's okay. You know the consequences. It'll be fine.” You furrow your eyebrows, breathing harder, not understanding anything. “Not the first time, hm?” she adds, giving you a wink. Her words make no sense, your head is hurting with how tight you pull your eyebrows together, and with all the thoughts and questions whirling about in a wild dance of confusion.

“I... I don't –”

“Shh,” she shushes you, her hand gripping your chin. You freeze. “Be a good pet and go back to your room. I'll clean this up. Put on the clothes I chose for you. Wait for me when you're done. Do you understand?”

You stare at her, your body tensing up, your cunt clenching hard around nothing. Her words, the cadence of her voice, the dominant tone, it all brings you to do one thing, your mind emptying as words spill from your trembling lips. “Yes, Mistress.”

You don't even know where these came from. Mistress? Pet? What is going on? But your body moves on auto-pilot, your mind swirling, still fighting the confusion, but also easing into a strange void, triggered by words you've heard before, or so it feels, commands you've answered many times in the past.

She lets go of your chin, giving you a warm smile, even though her eyes are dark and somewhat cold, and you nod, bow your head and shuffle out of the room, your legs trembling as you make your way back into your bedroom across the hall.

For a moment you're wondering how you got here, why you're here, but then your gaze falls onto a pile of clothes on your bed. You walk closer, picking up item after item. A short black skirt, pleated, barely long enough to not be considered a belt. A tight tank top, white and almost see-through. A set of fancy black underwear, a lace bra with an intricate flower pattern, a thong of similar design. There's also a pair of sheer black stockings, a garter belt and straps to attach each piece together.

Your stomach tenses at the sight. You've seen these pieces before, in the photos you shouldn't have seen. It's a blur how you put them on, your head spinning, your hands shaking, but you still somehow manage to dress in time before you hear footsteps on the floorboards outside your room. Your heart beats faster, your chest heaving, tight in the bra and top, straining, something cold crashing down your spine before it gathers hot and pulsing right between your legs.

Before the creaking of the door announces your roommate, you suddenly fall to your knees, your feet tucked under your rear, your hands automatically finding purchase in your lap, folded neatly as you stretch your back and square your shoulders, breathing deep as you train your eyes straight ahead, waiting for the door to open. You have no idea what made you assume this position, why it feels so familiar, so safe in a way.

Your roommate (your Mistress) enters your bedroom, her high heels thudding over the carpet as she walks up to you, tilting her head as she watches you closely. “Stand,” she says, and you do, your legs moving seemingly on their own. Once you stand, stiff with your arms pressed to your sides, chest pushed out, your neck straight, eyes wandering over the tall frame in front of you, she nods. “See? You haven't forgotten. Good girl,” she says, and the praise shoots through you like a pistol shot, straight into your clit, making it throb and ache, your heart beating in the same hurried rhythm.

She walks around you then, her long fingers brushing over your bare arms, around your shoulders, down your spine, until she gives your ass a soft slap, making you gasp quietly. She repeats the motion, but this time, she leaves her hand on your cheek for a moment, squeezing it, her fingernails digging into your soft skin. You stiffen, breathing a little harder.

“You're so beautiful,” she whispers as she leans into you, looming behind you, her breath ghosting your jaw. “My perfect little muse.”

You feel her lips brushing against the soft spot behind your ear, a hot kiss that makes you shiver, while her hand gropes your ass, fingertips teasing at the thin fabric of your thong tucked between your cheeks.

Suddenly she leans back, lets go of you, and you hear her walking a few steps before she stops, a deep sigh echoing through the room. You turn around slowly, unsure if you should, but when you do, you freeze as you watch her pick up the glass of water on your bedside table.

“Baby, I told you to drink more,” she says with a tilt of her head. “You always forget, hm? So busy, head always in the clouds...” She walks back to you, holding the glass in front of you, her eyes boring into yours as she waits for you to grab it. You do, your hands shaking. “Drink up, pretty girl. You know you need it.”

She's so caring, you think as you bring the water to your lips, holding her gaze, but as soon as you feel the cold liquid running down your tight throat, an image flickers before your eyes. Your roommate (Mistress) sitting on your bed, moving a clear glass straw in a stirring motion, swirling the water, making a faint sheen of powder disappear. You feel as if you've watched her do that many times. What is that? What did she put in here? Vitamins? Or something else?

But you can't even question it further, can't find the courage to ask, when you realize you've drank the whole thing, every drop of water (and whatever else was in there) now in your stomach. “Good girl,” she praises and smiles at you, before she takes the glass from your clammy fingers and puts it back on your bedside table. “Now let's get you ready for our big night out, yeah?”

You frown, another faint memory peeking through the fog in your head. It seems to be getting thicker now. Strange. But this image, you still see somewhat clearly before you. You had plans tonight, you remember now, you wanted to go out. Where? No idea. But you needed a hair tie. Yeah. That's why you went into your roommate's room in the first place. Some details are blurry (were you supposed to go out with her? Have you done that before? Why would you? You barely know the woman...), but somehow they don't matter anymore.

She steps back in front of you, her fingers vanishing in the cleavage of her dress before she pulls something from between her breasts. You blink in confusion as you recognize the shape. It's a metal butt plug. And she stored it between her boobs? Interesting.

“Open wide, pet,” she tells you, and without even questioning it, you part your lips and let your tongue roll out. She looks pleased as she puts the rounded object into your mouth. It's warm, and the taste triggers something else in you. Another familiar sensation. It's her, you know without knowing, her taste, sweet and a bit salty, exploding on your tongue, sinking deep, causing soft shivers to crash down your spine, something hot gathering low in your gut.

You've had your face on her chest before, huh? Must be. Your cheeks burn up badly, your breaths loud through your nose as you suckle on the butt plug between your lips, your eyes scanning the pretty face looking down at you. She keeps her fingers on the base, pushing the object in and out, and you find yourself licking around it, coating it in your saliva. Like you've done before. You think.

She watches you before she lets go of the plug and puts her palm over your mouth. “Keep it nice and warm for me, okay?” she says, leaning closer until her nose brushes against yours. You give a jerking nod, tightening your lips around the narrowest part of the plug while its body rests hard and heavy on your tongue. “Good.”

You feel saliva pooling in your mouth, and the urge to swallow becomes stronger. But you focus on the woman in front of you as she straightens up again, her hands on her hips. Her whole presence, her aura, has you in its grip, you feel, it's impossible to fight it, to protest, to do anything except the things she demands of you. All it takes is a look, a word, her voice driving through you like an electric current that controls your every limb.

And so you move when she tells you to turn around and bend over, and as you rest on your forearms on the edge of your bed, she nudges your legs apart and steps between them, her hands sliding under your skirt and pushing it up. You stiffen slightly, breathing harder, your heart thundering inside your chest, but you can't object, you don't want to. You just endure.

And a tiny part of you, through the fog in your head, lights up, a growing heat that creeps down your spine, tenses in your stomach, seeps lower until it gathers in your core, scorching, wet, and it's all you feel when she pushes your thong aside and moves her fingers along your slit, dipping gently between your puffy lips and into your slick, the loud squelching noise making your ears burn.

She prods at your entrance, teases your clit, but then she moves up again, and without warning or command or reassuring words pokes right against your puckered hole, and as you gasp around the plug in your mouth, flinching slightly, she stretches your rim and pushes into your ass, a slim finger, a pointy fingernail, digging against your tense muscles. In and out it goes until there are two fingers, then three, and it burns, the friction too much, like little daggers poking at your nerves.

“Come on, pet, relax,” she says from behind you, moving her fingers deeper, curling them, pushing and prodding against protesting muscles. “You've done this before. You're a pro at this, remember?”

Her words bring up the hazy memories of the pictures you saw, of the various items wedged into your tight ass, and some just don't make sense. Three cucumbers? Really? While it already feels like too much when she 'only' has three slim fingers inside you? How did you manage that? Your stomach gives a distant growl as drool slips past your tight lips and onto your bed.

“Fine, I'll lube you up this time,” she sighs and removes her fingers with a strangely wet pop. This time? She doesn't usually? It's almost as if you can remember the pain of the dry friction, but then why can you never remember any soreness afterwards? Confusion lingers on your mind as you hear her footsteps leaving the room.

You remain in your bent-over position, your hands clawing at the sheets as you suckle mindlessly on the metal plug in your mouth, trying to make sense of it all. You come to no conclusion whatsoever when she eventually returns, and you hear the squirt of some liquid before you can feel it. Large dollops of something cold pressing against your tight hole. You groan against the object between your lips as she pushes deeper, her fingers, slick and cold, sliding in and out again.

This time she stretches your hole by scissoring her fingers, knuckles digging into your tense muscles, and you hear another squirt and something cold lands on your hot skin, slipping right into you. You shiver, goosebumps breaking out on your exposed skin. She keeps doing that, filling you up with more and more lube, you assume, her fingers pushing it deep, coating your insides. It's a strange sensation, but again, this feels somewhat familiar, and triggers more memories you seem to have suppressed before, or forgotten.

You see yourself strapped to a reclining chair, your legs raised up in some sort of stirrups, ankles tied and wrists bound to the armrests. You're naked, and she is kneeling between your wide open legs in front of a large plastic bucket or something like it, and there's a tube inside your ass, something cold (water?) pressing through it and into you, and you see and feel it filling you up, your stomach bulging, and you feel sick, your insides cramping, but you can't say anything, there's a gag in your mouth, so all you can do is squirm in your restraints, until you feel a different sort of pain as she slaps your mound with a force that makes you cry out, makes you flinch remembering it, and she keeps at it, hitting your clit with precise blows until it's all puffy and throbbing badly, and you throw your head back and whine helplessly, your belly still bulging, filling up, while her voice coos into your ear:

“You want to be clean, pet, don't you? So we gotta clean you up properly. You don't want to be dirty for our guests, now do you?”

You frown deeply as those words echo in your cloudy head. Guests? But the question vanishes slowly, replaced by the sensation of her fingers digging deep into your ass, spreading more lube, and in the back of your mind you're just glad she isn't giving you another enema. A strange thought to have, but it makes sense in the dizziness that holds you hostage. Breathing harder, you press your forehead into the bed, swallowing hard around the plug in your mouth.

As she works on (in) your ass, you start to feel a tingle in your neglected pussy, a spasm deep within, a little clench, a needy little urge, and instead of holding still, you find yourself grinding your rear into her hand. She stops immediately, a deep sigh escaping her as she pulls her fingers out of your ass and grips your nape with her wet hand. You shiver and stiffen, holding your breath as she pulls you into a standing position.

Her free hand grabs the base of the plug and pulls it out of your mouth where it clangs against your teeth, causing you to flinch. You swallow the excess spit and take a shuddering breath as you feel the warm metal pressing between your ass cheeks. With how she worked you open, it slips in easily enough, and your muscles clench slightly around its narrow neck, but it's only after she smacks your soft cheek a few times in rapid succession, making you whine and shudder as your skin tightens, that you're tensing up enough to hold it in place.

She lets go of you and spins you around, then holds out her hand to you, her fingers glistening in lube and your own wetness. “Clean,” she says, and even though your stomach makes a loud grumble of protest, you find yourself leaning in and closing your lips around her slim fingers. A strange taste of artificial strawberry and something else, something tangy and your own, floods your senses, but you close your eyes and flick your tongue around her digits, focusing on the task and not on the taste and the origin of it.

Eventually she pulls her hand away and pats your cheek, leaving a trail of saliva on your warm skin. Your eyes flutter open as she leans around you and adjusts your thong, pulling it back in place, then pushes your skirt down again. Her eyes meet yours, the gaze intense, creating another soothing wave of heat that rolls over you gently, that makes you clench around the plug in your butt. A smile grazes her full lips, and you find yourself smiling back.

“Alright, now put your hair up, get your shoes and your coat, and wait by the front door,” she tells you as she steps away, holding your gaze until you nod obediently. Your mind is reeling at this point, confusion and arousal warring inside of you. What is happening?

You don't know, and you don't seem to care too much either as you start moving, following her orders. You end up on your knees again, right by the door, waiting like a dog, and the image couldn't have been more fitting when you see her approaching with a strange leather band in her hands. You blink when she crouches down before you and fixes what you can only assume is a collar around your neck. It sits tight enough to notice it, but you can still breathe freely and swallow against it without it restricting you in any way.

You're still confused why you need this (and why you accept it so easily). Your roommate (Mistress) cups your face and looks at you with a warm gaze that makes you bite your lip, her hands rubbing over your cheeks before she tugs her thumbs under your chin and lifts it so she can lean in and press her lips to yours. Your eyes flutter shut as you part your lips and meet her tongue, the kiss deep and soft, gentle gliding of tongues and lips, a warm gesture, sending sparks through your nerves that make you throb with a need that feels both familiar and eerily unknown, frightening.

A single thought ricochets through your empty head: You would do anything for this woman.

“My beautiful pet,” she whispers against your tingling lips, the tip of her tongue tracing the corner of your mouth. “Are you ready?”

Without thinking, without wondering what for, you nod eagerly, a breathless “Yes, Mistress.” leaving your swollen lips. She gives you another peck and stands up then, snapping her fingers in a way that leaves no room for interpretation. You stand immediately, swaying slightly on the high heels you were told to wear. You're still smaller than her, but having to look up only amplifies the sensation coursing through you. Your devotion for her.

She grabs a large bag and shoves it into your hands, and you know by the weight and feel of it, that it holds camera equipment. A distant memory shimmers behind your glassy eyes, of stumbling into her room, finding those envelopes in the drawer of her desk, of flipping through countless pictures of your naked body, of your holes being stuffed and stretched, of being tied down, of letting her do with you whatever she wants. What has disturbed you earlier is barely worth a flinch now.

It's what you do. It's what you are. Her muse. Her pet. She chose you and you obey. It's what you do, it's what she does. She's your Mistress, after all.

1 🎀 2 🎀 3 🎀 4

End notes: Yes, our dominant lady here is indeed inspired by a character from my other (m/f) Dom/sub story: Infatuated: Mistress.

By the way, a little disclaimer at the end here as we go to the next (heavier) chapters: I am not a BDSM professional or expert, I am a writer with a dirty mind and access to the Internet. This is fiction, gaslighting people is bad, consent is very important, but when a hot lady tells you to do something, you gotta do it, that's the law (jk). Please see this as what it is: a fantasy and nothing more.

Thank you for reading! Next chapter on Saturday!

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

210 notes · View notes

kimchi-miss · 1 year ago

Text

♥︎𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝑭𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒆 𝑺𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔/𝑽𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝑭𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑨𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒐𝒏 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎♥︎

•ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs ʜᴏʀʀᴏʀ sʟᴀsʜᴇʀs, ᴅᴄ ᴠɪʟʟɪᴀɴs•

♡𝘎𝘕 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳♡

∇No warnings, pure fluff!∇

❃Requested by: No one, I was just feeling gay as usual❃

✦𝑇𝑖𝑓𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑉𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑒✦

♥︎"Hey, Sugar?"

♥︎ Tiffany would call out your name softly, a few times to see if you were still awake or not.

♥︎ After realizing you were asleep, she would take the time to admire your features and pet your hair soothingly.

♥︎ If you think she's leaving anytime soon, then think again because she's staying even after you wake up.

♥︎ She would probably hum a quiet tune to keep you asleep and relaxed.

♥︎ If anyone were to interrupt, she glare at them to not make any sound but would go back to admiring your cute face.

♥︎ She could always go later to deal with them.

♥︎ Overall, she's so comfy to sleep on and would give you the best nap of your life.

✦𝐷𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒✦

♥︎ Dollface would have the biggest smile on her face just watching you sleep.

♥︎ The view of your chest just rising up and down is the best for her.

♥︎ She would probably start caressing your face softly and engraving that picture in her mind.

♥︎ You just look so peaceful and cute that she can't contain her content.

♥︎ If a stranger dared to interrupt or accidentally wakes you up, they'll be dead faster than you could blink.

♥︎ She then would make you go back to sleep after she made sure they were dead.

♥︎ At the end, she's a great pillow and will make sure no one interrupts your sleep <3.

✦𝐵𝑎𝑏𝑦 𝐹𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑙𝑦✦

♥︎ Baby would giggle a little when she realized you were asleep.

♥︎ Like the others, she would admire you and bring you close to a tight embrace.

♥︎ If any of her family members caught you guys together, she would shush them and send them a silent gesture to shoo them away.

♥︎ This was her time now and no one was going to change that.

♥︎ She would probably fall asleep with you, finding it so comfortable and relaxing.

♥︎ But if someone who wasn't her family interrupted..

♥︎ OO would she be pissed.

♥︎ They better start praying because they ain't making it that night.

♥︎ Afterwards she'll give you a kiss as an apology and promises she can make it up for the rest of the night.

♥︎ "I'm sorry hon, if you want, we could do something other than sleeping. I promise it'll be good;)"

✦𝐶𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑒 𝑊ℎ𝑖𝑡𝑒✦

♥︎ Carrie wouldn't know what to do in this situation.

♥︎ She would feel very flustered at the situation and would try to see if you were actually asleep.

♥︎"Y/N? Y/N, are you awake?"

♥︎ Once she knew you were asleep for sure she would look around making sure no one, (her bullies), were seeing this.

♥︎ Once the coast was clear she would slowly feel peace staring at you.

♥︎ She would smile, admiring the adorable faces you made during your sleep.

♥︎ She would try her hardest not to move or to disturb you, wanting you to get all the rest you need.

♥︎ Once you actually woke up she would simply smile and say, "Did you have a good rest?"

✦𝐻𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑒𝑦 𝑄𝑢𝑖𝑛𝑛✦

♥︎ Harley would just let out a long "Awwww"

♥︎ The fact you trusted her enough to just fall asleep on her was amazing.

♥︎ She would laugh at the silly faces you would make but would mostly adore them.

♥︎ Would probably start reading some book that's next to her, occasionally looking back at you.

♥︎ After she doesn't feel like reading anymore, she'll play with your hair, smiling at your state.

♥︎ She would kiss your forehead very gently every few minutes.

♥︎ She then would start whispering about how she much she loved you.

♥︎ You wake up during this and decided to pretend to be asleep.

♥︎ Unfortunately for you, She found out pretty quickly that you woke up and started to say some vulgar things to mess with you.

♥︎ You got very embarrassed and had to state you were awake for her to stop.

♥︎"Ha! I knew you were awake puddin, I was just messing with you."

#tiffany valentine #tiffany valentine x reader #dollface #baby firefly #baby firefly x reader #carrie white #carrie white x reader #harley quinn #harley quinn x reader #slashers x reader #horror #dc harley quinn #female slasher #female slashers x reader

2K notes · View notes

screechcat · 2 months ago

Text

Just a big fat list of all my favorite stories/series/art on this app.

Chasing More Than Ghosts - WandaNat x Reader

Neon Lights - Nuts and Dolts comic series

A Love Lost - Natasha x Reader - Angst

Shielded 1-4 - Dimtrescu Sisters/Alcina series

You Have A Kid? - Maria Hill x Reader

A Love So Understanding - Sam Carpenter x Reader (I just have to add that this has to be one of my favorite series on this app)

Everyone But Her - Wednesday Addams x Reader (my other favorite series on this app)

New York, New Rules - Tara Carpenter x Reader

Tux/suit art help

@divinegrey Arcane Masterlist - Vanisher Series (Jinx x Reader) - Pop Rocks & Punches (Vi x Reader)

Note: I, honest to the Gods, think of both of these series multiple times throughout my year.

Road to Healing - Wanda x Reader

In Mourning - WandaNat x Reader

Can't Let Her Make That Sacrifice - Jinx x Reader (Should def read this while listening to What Have They Done to Us from season 2)

Her Heartbeat Masterlist - Wednesday x Reader (Angst) - Another absolute banger in the works

In another, another universe - Arcane art

Healing Hands - Wanda x Reader ◇

The Ghost of Lovell Hill - Cairo Sweet x Reader

107 notes · View notes

sijssjsbssjsnsnnskbskwns · 4 months ago

Text

Hell of a summer (what songs I think match the vibe) (part 2)

Movie summary…

Y/n L/n

60 notes · View notes

teaaagan · 2 years ago

Text

Best person ever!

Cassandra: Where's Harley?

Pamela: Don't worry, I'll find her

Pamela, shouting: Y/N sucks!

Harley, distantly: Y/N is the best person ever!Fuck you!

Pamela: Found her

#incorrect quotes #dc #harley quinn #harley quinn x you #harley quinn x reader #harley quinn x male reader #harley quinn x fem reader #harley quinn x fem!reader #harley quinn x male!reader #harley quinn x gn!reader #harley quinn x gn reader #birds of prey #harleen quinzel #harleen quinzel x reader #harleen quinzel x fem reader #harleen quinzel x male reader #harleen quinzel x gn reader #harley quinn x female reader

860 notes · View notes

anxiousnerdwritings · 2 years ago

Text

Hiya Sugar,

You’re the newest goodey-goodey in town, aren’t ya? What am I sayin’, of course ya are! I already knew that! In fact I know a lot about’cha, you’d be real surprised.

At first, I didn’t think too much about there being another vigilante running amuck. To me it was the usual same ol’, same ol’ in Gotham. It wasn’t until we had our very first run in that had me wanting to take a real good look into ya. I had been with my former crappy Puddin’ at the time and we were planning to cause some havoc for B-man, but you showed up first. That didn’t stop us from causin’ you some trouble too but you were really somethin’. A good kinda somethin’! You surpassed both mine and my ex-Puddin’s expectations by a long shot, putting us in our place real quick before B-man even made an appearance. But when he did finally roll around, my shitty ex had the audacity to use me as a distraction so he could getaway, puttin’ me in peril.

I’ll be honest I was worried there for a bit. Sure I was all laughs about it until it set in that my Puddin wasn’t gonna save me then the panic came. I mean hanging off a 70 story building by the tippy tips of ya fingers will do that to ya, ya’know? (To be honest, I don’t even know if it really was 70 stories but it sure as hell felt like it.) But then the most marvelous thing happened! My grip gave way and I was startin’ to fall only for an arm to shoot out and catch me!

Now, I was fully expecting B-man or one of his little birdies being the one who got to me but imagine my surprise when I was met with a new face. A really nice lookin’ face too! (At least from what I could tell.) Your grip on me was real strong and firm but it felt gentle all the same. Ya pulled me up and looked me all over for any serious damage, askin’ if I was alright. You didn’t manhandle or be too rough with me whatsoever. In fact you were real gingerly in checking me over. You also weren’t yellin’ or shoutin’ at me either, instead you were speaking slow and soft to me. I remember your voice bein’ real nice to listen to too. In that moment I realized you truly were somethin’ different, a breath of fresh air compared to the rest of the heroes coming out of the woodworks in Gotham.

You were just so nice to me, even though we tried to kill ya and cause some psychological damage along the way (sort bout that by the way😅), but you were still worried about little ol’ me. I don’t even think B-man has ever been really genuinely concerned about my well-being before, at least not like you were, when my Puddin’s used me like a meat shield. If it weren’t for his no killing hangup he probably would have let me die plenty of times before. But you actually cared! I don’t know what exactly it was but somethin’ about ya that night made me feel all tingly and warm inside and I liked it. Then the next thing I knew you were gone chasing after B-man and my ex-Puddin’ leavin’ me feelin’ cold and alone. Ever since then I’ve been keepin’ a close eye on ya. Hell, I even dumped my Puddin’ right after that incident. Ya should have seen his face, thinkin’ I wasn’t serious only for him to come mopin’ around wantin’ me back. But I stood my ground. Besides, I already had my eye on somethin’ better. Or rather someone better.

Like I said before, I’ve been keepin’ my eye on ya since then and I’m so glad I did. Sure some people would call it “stalking” but I prefer to call it “closely admiring from a reasonable and legal distance”. Except those few times I did let myself into your place and took a peek around. I didn’t take anything though, at least nothing you’d notice but that’s not what’s important. What is important though is how much you’ve opened my eyes to new horizons beyond just stupid ol’ Joker and everything that has to do with him. I still do the odd crime here and there but they’re no way near the same extremes like they used to be. I only really do somethin’ bad when I know you’re on patrol and will for sure be the one to stop my shenanigans. Honestly, I just want the chance to see and talk to ya again. Don’t even get me started about all the times when I have caused mischief only for B-man or one of his birdies to be the one to show up instead of you. I’ve never felt so disappointed and upset before. All that time and effort only for some other big baddie or even a small petty criminal to take up your attention away from me. It really gets under my skin. Would I say I’m jealous though? Not really. Okay maybe a little but can ya blame me? After all this time I finally have somethin’ good in my life that’s gettin’ me to change perspective only to have to share it with others who have no intention on changin’ for anybody! They’re a waste of your time but I get that you gotta stick to your goodey-goodey schtick, that’s who ya are after all. But still it gets me feelin’ some type of way, and not in a good way either.

I can’t help that you’ve become something so prominent to me in such a short amount of time, although I know ya don’t know just how much ya truly mean to me. I’ve even started focusing on doing more good than bad, little by little ya’ know? Baby steps. You’re a good part of why I started leaning more towards being good but it was also due to another incident I got in. I won’t go into it but let’s just say it involved a lower criminal who just wouldn’t stop runnin’ his mouth about ya and I wasn’t havin’ any of it. I admit I may have gone a little overboard with getting my a point across but he deserved it. He had no right talkin’ about ya like that! Sure, he’ll probably never wake up from his coma and is in a permanent vegetative state but you can’t say he isn’t technically still alive. So at least I didn’t kill him kill him, right? Hey, what can I say this goodey stuff is still pretty new to me. At least I’m tryin’ my best. There was also some other stuff involved besides him bad mouthin’ ya but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was but I’m sure it also was well deserving of an ass kickin’.

Oh goodness gracious, look at me ramblin’ away as usual! Ya got that kind of affect on me, ya’know? But anyhoo, I should really end this letter before I start spillin’ all my beans. I need to keep some secrets to myself after all. But maybe I’ll get around to tellin’ ya those ones too when we’re much more acquainted. But don’t worry ya little ol’ head though, sugar, everythin’ will come to fruition in due time and the two of us will be together! I just gotta get a few of my duckies in a row before we take the plunge but it’ll all be worth it in the end and you’ll finally be all mine!

See ya soon, sugar! Don’t miss me too much though~ Before ya know it we’ll be makin’ up for all our lost time and really gettin’ to know each other! But until then I’ll leave ya with this and a few gifts I left behind for ya too!

Lots of lovin’,

Harley<3<3<3

P.s

Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxxooxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxooxoxoxoxooxoxoxxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxxxoxox~~~~

926 notes · View notes

pandorascripts · 2 years ago

Text

Maddening Love

summary: harley never meant to become what she was afraid of. it seems she did though.

pairing: harley quinn x gn!reader (can be read as fem)

warnings: murder, gun violence, making out.

note: this has been in my drafts for a while, and I fricking love harley. thought she deserved some love, so please send in requests for her!!! <333

-🃏-

Harley turns on her heel, huffing a hot breath into the cold winter air. “You don’t love me no more.”

You rush up to Harley, reaching out, but retract your hand at the last moment. “Harls, no, no, I do.” Frowning, you timidly place a hand on her cold shoulder.

With a fury you’ve never seen before in her eyes, Harley glares at you. “I don’t appreciate liars, cupcake.”

The venom in her words knocks you off guard, but you know Harley. You know she has her jealousies, when someone got too frisky with you, or when she herself was battling her own insecurities. You shake your head, knowing she needs comfort. It was something she’d always lacked in her relationship with him, so you were determined to give it to her.

“I’m no liar. I love you, Harley. Only you.” You wrap your arms around her, burying your head into her neck. Even if the position is uncomfortable, considering Harley is taller than you, and you need to be on your tip-toes, you hold out for as long as you can.

When your ankles are hurting, and your feet are aching, you lean away of her. You still keep yours arms wrapped around her neck, your left thumb brushing against her skin. Looking into her eyes, you see anger and hurt, but underneath there, there’s a look you’ve seen so many times. Insecurity.

“What’s got you upset, Harley?”

She shakes her head, softly biting her lip as she looks away from you. “Nothin’, it’s stupid.”

“Harley,” you pause, gently guiding her head back to you, “your feelings aren’t stupid. Please.”

Your eyebrows ease up and you try to dump all your emotions into your eyes. You pour all your love for her, your own insecurities, everything you hold, but you know that it’s useless. You felt too much for her, there’s was no possible way you could measure it to size, much less show all of it.

Harley caves, leaning down into you as her hands wrap around your sides. “You promise you love me?”

“Always.”

A small sniffle comes from Harley, and you feel your heart shatter. The shards from your heart pierce your lungs, making your breathing turn jagged. Tears of your own form and you don’t bother hiding them. “I will always love you, Harls.”

A minute of silence passes and you think you’ve reminded her, but her troubles overpower her, again.

“Prove it.”

Desperately, you nod your head.

“How?”

Harley’s head retreats from your neck and she meets your eyes. Her hand comes up to your face, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear.

“I’d kill for you, Harls.”

She shakes her head, a beautifully crazed smile gracing her lips. “No, that’s too easy, sweetheart. The question is, would’ja love me if I killed?”

You nod your head hastily. “You cant scare me.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Harley takes your hand, the other one pulling out a handgun as she retreats back into the nightclub you’d just left. “What if I shot up this joint, huh? What ‘bout then?”

“I’d take the blame.”

You quicken your pace, longing to be at her side.

“Would’ja?” she questions, back turned to the door. With a nod of your head, she kicks it open.

The once muffled music cuts through the December night, loud lights blind you as you trail after her inwards. Harley’s grip on your hand only tightens as she walks forward, handgun pressed to her side. Sweaty bodies collide against yours, and you’re reminded why you hate clubs. The bodies pushing and pulling at you make you sick, but when Harley’s hand is in yours, it drowns out anything else.

When she reaches dead center, she pulls you close to her. Harley leans down to your ear, practically yelling over the music.

“Would’ja be my New Years kiss?” she asks, giggling mischievously.

The crowd counts down, and as they reach two, you pull Harley downwards by her collar. Her lips meet yours on the last number, and her gun fires. People run around you and Harley, all desperate to escape their deaths. Bodies bump into you; but her lips planted firmly on yours ground you against them. Harley’s free hand grips the back on your neck, the other causing chaos. Screams fill your ears as Harley empties her clip, bullets flying in all directions, and you bring her back down to you again. Softly, Harley bites your lip, releasing it with a pop as she backs away.

You take a moment to look around. Bodies surround you two, and in a comical way, you make out a heart. Harley steps forward again, holding your chin back as you share air.

“Still love me now, honey?”

You nod, not bothering to address the cold barrel pointed at your head.

“What if I pulled the trigga?”

“Yes,” you husk out, not hesitating in the slightest. “You emptied your mag already, it wouldn’t do anything.”

“What if I had a bullet?”

You scan her eyes, her cold ones piercing through yours. It doesn’t bother you though, you have enough warmth and love to fill up hers. You’d gladly share it.

“Same answer, Harls. You can’t scare me away.”

Slowly, you bring her back down to you. Her warm lips greet yours, and you know you’ve smudged her lipstick. Harley pulls back, kissing the corner of your mouth and then your jaw.

“You don’ care that imma killa?”

You shake your head slightly, still wanting her lips on your skin. “No.”

“No?” she asks, planting another kiss below your ear.

A shiver runs down your spine, one of your hands holds Harley’s head as the other holds her lower back. “Not at all.”

Sirens blare around you, but you don’t mind. Harley whispers something incoherent, her hands on your hips having your full attention. You nod, mumbling yes, and her warm body is pulled out of yours. Your eyes snap open, desperately searching for pink and blue, but you can’t find it. As the doors bust open, and swarms of yells surround you, you drop to your knees. Cold metal clicks around your wrist as rough hands pull you up.

The shocking realization that Harley had left you hits like a brick, and you blink several times, with each one wishing this wasn’t true.

“Harls!” you yell, trashing against the cops.

A sob racks through your body as a hard object slams against your stomach. You gasp, heart shattered once again, the evidence burrowing itself deep in your lungs. You cry and plead, but when they toss you in a room, you don’t say a thing. Harley may have betrayed you, but you’d never fathom of doing the same. If she needed her reassurance for your love, this had to be it, right? The more you suffer, the more it shows you care. Harley would see you suffering, and she know you’d truly care for her. She’d get you out, she had to. The thought brought a smile to your lips, a giggle cracking them apart.

“You killed nine people, this isn’t a laughing matter.”

You look up to the detective, seeing his disappointed face. “I think it is.”

Another crazed smile paints itself on your lips.

“Who was with you?” he demands, hands slamming against the steel table.

You don’t flinch, not even moving a muscle as you stare at him. “Just me…”

“Those red lips on your neck say otherwise.”

“Can you blame a girl for having fun? Saw this cute blonde girl, made out with her for New Years, and then,” you pause, trying to build up dramatic suspense, “then I pumped her full of lead, ‘long with those eight other people.”

He nods his head. “Thanks for the confession. With that, you won’t be getting a trial,” he walks away, mumbling the last part of his sentence,”not like you crazies deserve one.”

You mock a salute to him on his way out.

Harley’d get you, she’d kill all these mediocre officers. A laugh surges through your broken lungs, wheezing out and shattering the silence.

480 notes · View notes

mistycreativelilacs · 4 months ago

Text

Thawing of A Heart Pt.3

Authors note: what’s this? Not me updating this fic three years later.

Whoops ¯\_(ツ)_/¯… Anyway here’s the (maybe) long awaited third part filled with tension and plot twists.

Content warning: Violence, gun use, references to castration, references to mental health, use of the word crazy, mild angst, mentions of character deaths, Peacemaker exists (rip to people who like him)

Pt.1 (x) Pt.2 (x)

You’re lost in the ever-changing branches of Rick’s timelines when Cleo nudges you. Your eyes sweep the plane, unable to stop the pang of longing for your old team. The pang turns to a dull ache in your chest as you attempt to block the visions of your friends' flickering timelines. If you were going to be any use to them, you’d need to re-adopt the Ice Queen persona you’d had when you started this job five years ago.

“So how does Bruce Wayne’s eldest charity case end up working with a bunch of second-rate criminals?” Bloodsport interrupts your pondering. He’d been watching you since the debrief, eyes trained on you like a puzzle he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to solve. You could imagine what Harl’s would have to say if she were here.

‘Ooooh, looks like someone’s got themselves a shiny new criminal admirer. Should I lick you to show him you’re already claimed?’ Said in the world’s worst stage whisper to garner Flags attentions. Subtlety and Harley were not synonymous, and no one cared more about the pseudo-relationship between yourself and Flag then your self proclaimed ‘BFF’. She’d expressed her feelings on the matter several times over the years. Your favourite instance being several months ago, during one of your last missions with the team. You and Flag had been arguing about sending you in to get information from the target when Harley sauntered over wicked grin on her face. ‘You twos should just relieve this obvious tension already. Seriously, here’s a broom closet. Go at it, for the good of the team.’ Manic smile still firmly on her face as she attempted to drag you into said closet.

“I believe the words you meant to say, Sergeant Dubois is ‘Bruce Wayne’s eldest child’. To which I’d have to say we have more of a sibling relationship. Not that it’s any of your business.” You hold his gaze. “As for joining the squad?” You shrug, “Wrong place at the right time.” He quirks his brow clearly unamused.

“I haven’t been a Sergeant in a long time.”

“And just what would you call your current roll here?” You gesture around the plane while he glares at you. The corner of your mouth twitches against your will.

“Waller evidently had been keeping tabs on me, due in part to certain rumours about my participation in corporate espionage. So, when I got picked up by GCPD for allegedly crashing Bruce’s new Ferrari into the lobby of LexCorps newest eyesore of a skyscraper in downtown Gotham, Waller swooped in.” Your little chat had garnished the attention of the plane's other occupants, their heads all turned towards you and Robert.

“You want us to believe that the daughter of Billionaire Bruce Wayne got hauled off to Belle Reve for crashing a car? And what could Waller want in a civilian like you anyway?” Peacemaker. You’d been attempting to avoid him since Waller introduced you at the debrief. If his persistent existence as the antagonist in your visions of Flag’s current timeline wasn’t enough to turn you off, the skin crawling sensation of his eyes constantly roaming over your body was enough to put him firmly in the creep category.

“Crashing a car didn’t get me sent to Belle Reve. As I said, I’d been the subject of corporate espionage rumours for years. Waller used my accident combined with those rumours to get me whisked to Belle Reve under the guise of my being a National Security risk. It took one phone call from Bruce to get the charges dropped, but by then I was already in the middle of Midway City on my first Task Force mission.”

“If the charges were dropped, why stick around?” Your eyes wonder back to Robert.

“Can’t a girl want to be part of something bigger than herself?” There’s a teasing lilt to your voice and somewhere in the back of your head a voice - that sounds suspiciously like Harley- reminds you that you’re here to save Flag, not flirt with attractive violent Englishmen. Even if they did fall perfectly into your type of the emotionally constipated older dilf. “No, much like all of you Waller has a small amount of blackmail to keep me compliant.” You cross one leg over the other, adopting the oh so familiar public persona of a Wayne. “Unlike all of you, I’m being paid to be here.”

“But why does she want you here?” Peacemaker leans forward in his seat.

“Originally, she believed me to be some sort of hacker savant or a meta with some sort of compulsion powers. I was neither of those, but I did prove to be quite useful in the field.” Your gaze moves to you lap as timelines tickle the back of your mind, begging to be seen. “I do dread the day she realizes just what kind of bird she’s caged.” An image of Rick in pain flashes through your mind. Gone before you can really grasp if it was a future timeline or your own imagination.

“Are you saying you’ve got some sort of bird powers?” You toy with checking the timelines to see just how fucked you’d be for killing Peacemaker here and now but ultimately decide it’d give Waller more ammunition against you.

“My powers lie more in the line of a… second sight than with birds, although…” You pretend to mull it over, “I’d probably get along better with you if my powers were more avian in nature.” You could see the ghost of a smirk flirt across Robert's face and a warmth flits through your chest.

You avert your gaze before the familiar itch of branching timelines can pull you under. Perhaps Flags icy demeanour of the last few months had affected you more than you thought. It’d been a long time since such minor attentions from a man had you near slipping into the branches of time.

“What the fucks that supposed to mean?” Peacemaker stood abruptly, moving towards you only to be halted by Robert’s hand on his chest.

“Alright tough guy, sit back down.”

“Was it my use of verbose vocabulary words that has you confused?” You stand, waltzing closer to where they stand, one strand of hair curled around your finger. Perhaps Harley had been rubbing off on you more than you cared to admit. “Let me put it in words you’d understand.” Your standing face to face with Peacemaker now, Roberts body only partially between the two of you. “You.” You jab your finger into Peacemaker's sternum, brushing against Robert's arm. “Dumb.” Another jab. “Like.” Peacemaker's eyes had drifted to your finger on his chest while Robert attempted to move himself more in front of you. “Bird.” With the final jab you run your finger up and flick him in his nose, a move reminiscent of your nephews. With that final flick all hell broke loose.

Peacemaker moved to advance on you, having shoved Robert aside. You were expecting this, having let slips of the timeline penetrate your consciousness, and turn your back to him at the last minute grabbing the arm he’d reached forward to attack with. You flip him over your shoulder and as he slams into the planes floor, you dig your foot into his neck pointing your gun at his face.

“As you can see Robert, those fears of me being dead weight can be put to rest. I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself. Even against dumb brutes like him.” Peacemaker moves to grab your leg, and you let off a shot beside his head. “Stay down or the next ones a castration shot.” You move the gun to point at Peacemakers crotch and you catch a glimpse of fear in his eyes.

“Bitch” he gasps out as you dig the ball of your foot a little deeper into his neck.

“A bitch with near immunity, not that anyone would care if I wounded trash like you. Now are you going to shut up and behave like a good little dog.” Theres a flash of defiance in his eyes and you twitch your trigger finger.

“What the hell are they teaching in those fancy prep schools?” Robert's face didn’t give much in the way of what he was feeling, much like Flag, however you’d noticed that unlike Flag, Roberts eyes displayed his every emotion, if you knew what to look for. God, a few hours with this man and you’d already believed you could discern his emotions from a single glance. The sooner you got out of this plane the better.

“Looks like Rickies got some competition…” There goes the phantom Harley once again. Maybe her crazy is rubbing off on you like Bruce feared.

“Dancing.” You spit out, holding Robert's gaze as you remove your foot from Peacemaker's throat. “They teach you how to dance.” You’re finding far too much enjoyment in this little rapport you’ve started with the mercenary, but even Harley didn’t put up with your idiosyncrasies for this long, unless she was in a mood. The last person who could, ended up on the wrong side of Jokers crowbar. Perhaps Waller was right when she claimed the only thing separating me from the rest of the Belle Reve residents was the Wayne family name.

“I highly doubt dance lessons taught you how to do that.” There’s a spark of amusement in his eyes.

“Dancing, fighting.” You shrug “They’re one in the same are they not?” You sit back down, aware that the rest of the plane has gained a new wariness of you. You feel more than see Robert give you a once over.

“You truly are something else Wayne.” Robert exhales as he sits back down, the hint of a chuckle shaking his bulky frame.

Alarm bells start going off in your head. The kind of alarms that sound like Bruce and scream ‘life altering, name ruining, PR nightmare, absolutely atrocious decision making incoming.’

“You don’t even know the half of it Sergeant.”

Tag-List: @paryl @nerdgrrlramblings @weallhaveadestiny @a-girl-who-loves-disney @boristhepineapple @girlnred @romanticgumchewer-reactivated @lacontroller1991

#colonel rick flag #rick flag x reader #rick flag x female reader #bloodsport #bloodsport x reader #rick flag fanfiction #the suicide squad #harley quinn #bruce wayne #Wayne reader #jason todd #reader insert #fanfiction #dceu oc

22 notes · View notes

islawila · 2 months ago

Text

miss ween

16 notes · View notes

missfortuneisblue · 5 months ago

Text

Miss Fortune a.k.a. Allison “Alice” Morrigan: [28] Born into a traveling circus and carnival, Alice was the life of her beloved parents, who were aerobatic performers who often did amazing feats on the tightrope suspended above the audience. The famous duo, “Lewy & Suzy” (Lewis and Susan Morrigan) an Irish and Japanese couple, husband and wife respectively. At the age of ten, tragedy struck in Alice’s life when her parents were brutally murdered by an “unsatisfied” patron after a show. She was the first to find their bodies on the floor in their trailer. After that, her life was a spiral downhill.

Even after improving on her knife throwing, sword swallowing, and acrobatics, and showing her excellent grades from her online courses, the ringleader and the circus management forced her to become one of the clowns in fear that she might become a hazard to others. And despite her attempts to prove that she wouldn’t be a problem, she ended up proving their point when she was on the tightrope wire trying a new act when she saw her parents performing in front of her, causing her to go into shock and falling backwards. Thankfully there was a net placed to catch her. She permanently became a clown afterwards.

Taking on the stage name “Mad Alice” for her clown persona at age 16, Alice became one of the most beloved characters at the circus due to her expressive and wild personality. All the young children would come up to her to get a hug or autograph, telling her she reminded them of Alice from “Alice in Wonderland”. The rest of the clowns absolutely despised the attention Alice was receiving, despite her being the one that brings more and more people every show. It also didn’t help that her mental state was becoming more deteriorated after being diagnosed with schizophrenia, pseudobulbar affect (PBA), PTSD, Anosognosia, and Atypical depression.

At 17, Alice started sneaking into the lion and tiger cages to feed them their daily meals, slowly befriending them. Every day, Alice would speak to them as if they are having a conversation—and they were, in her head. The lions and tigers would tell her about all of the abuse they endured during their time in captivity, and how much they wish to rip into the animal tamers’ guts to show them a lesson.

During aftershows, Alice would display creepy behavior such as staring and smiling at others for a long period of time, random fits of laughter, walking into the kitchen to steal a knife, talking to herself, and spontaneously bursting into dance whenever hearing music. But one of the clowns, a 40 year old woman named Ruby, who lost her son in a car accident, always looked after Alice and had her best interests in heart. She doted on Alice as if she was her own baby girl, ever since the troubled girl was little. Ruby was the reality anchor Alice needed and the grandmother she never had.

Before one of the grand shows, Ruby took Alice to a tattoo parlor to grant the girl her wish: blue roses on her shoulders and left ribs in memory of her mother’s affectionate nickname given to Alice, “my little blue rose”.

By the age of 28, Alice was a fully grown psychopath under the guise of being the overworked star of the circus, dedicated to her craft and career as a clown. She is now more dangerous than before, almost killing her co-workers by throwing knives near their heads, leaving disturbing gifts in their trailers (after somehow breaking in), would create crazy and nightmarish paintings and drawings, would be found singing grimly lullabies and songs, spend hours listening to her mother’s music box that was an anniversary gift from her father, and most concerning of all, using razors and knives to cut herself and watch blood drip down her skin, reveling in the pleasure from the pain.

After a night show spoiled by a scheming Joker dressed in the former ringleader’s uniform, Alice was used as a hostage by the laughing clown and dragged down into a secret escape latch. She didn’t realize she was a hostage after they entered the sewers and struck up a conversation. Joker led her to another one of his hidden hideouts, an abandoned novelty factory. After a bit of more talking, Joker decided to make Alice his new henchwoman and gave her variety of outfits and gadgets to choose. After some “fooling around”—and learning more things about Alice that Joker wasn’t ready for—he had her join his goons. He gave her a variety of outfits to choose from, and she settled on what is now her iconic look.

Theme song: “It’s Bad Luck, Babe!”

Playlist :)

6 notes · View notes

animasola86 · 20 days ago

Text

F o r g e t f u l 🎀 2 / 4

Mistress takes you to a very special night out, reminding you of your place in your unique relationship as she pushes you right into the center of attention.

a dominant woman X a submissive girl with a memory problem

WARNINGS: F!Reader-insert! NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Mistress/pet. Domme/sub. Manipulation. Gaslighting. Praise kink. Dubcon elements. Humiliation. Exhibition(ism). Bondage. Dildo gag. Blindfold. Public groping. Forced orgasm. (More tags on AO3.) WORDS: 5.5k

1 🎀 2 🎀 3 🎀 4

The ride in the back of the car is a blur. You sit next to Mistress, her hand between your thighs as she fingers you lazily, her eyes fixed through the window, away from you, and you're just a toy to play with, to pass the time as the car weaves through the busy streets, the driver not saying a word, oblivious or used to whatever happens behind him.

She makes you clean her fingers afterward, after edging and teasing you, and you seem to know the drill. You can't come unless she tells you to. It's a heavy thing in the back of your mind, engraved in your brain, and while you bite the inside of your cheek to suppress the urge to let go, you let her handle you like that, because it's her right, isn't it?

Your mind is still hazy, filled with a strange kind of cotton that pushes on any thought that may come in the way, of protest, of confusion, of fear and shame. Those flicker up, occasionally, like fireflies, only to be squashed by something else, by the dizzy spell making your head spin, the throbbing heat in your stomach, the tension in your muscles, whenever she touches you. It doesn't matter then, it's only her fingers under your coat, on the little sliver of skin as she guides you through a crowd of people, the warmth of her body next to yours, her dominating presence as she meets strangers and talks to them, smiling, all professional, and you're just a girl beside her, small and unassuming, or so you think.

The lights are bright as you enter the building, warm air hits your face, makes you blink. Someone takes your coat, her hand is around yours as she pulls you along, the sound of your heels echoing through the vast room. Confusion fights through the fog in your head as you turn your gaze this way and that, finding strangely familiar sights in front of your hazy eyes.

You're in a gallery of some sort, a giant room sectioned off into smaller rooms, high ceilings vanishing into darkness, low hanging lights getting dimmer the further you go. There are large prints on the walls, but you can't quite make out what they portray yet. People wearing elegant dresses and expensive looking suits stand in clusters in front of them, holding champagne flutes, talking amongst themselves. Some turn their heads to you when you pass, a strange expression on their blurry faces.

You follow Mistress, her hand tight around yours, your heart beating faster. She guides you through various rooms, all filled with large photographs spanning the walls and people in front of them, and it's when you reach the last room, where the lights are slightly different, that you notice what they show.

It's you.

Similar motifs like you've found in your roommate's desk, pictures of your body, your holes, your glassy eyes, your lips strained around a gag, your hands bound behind your back, your skin marked by intricate rope patterns. You feel the heat rushing into your cheeks, your ears, your entire head flares up in shame as you realize that you're not just her muse (for her to take pictures of she can enjoy on her own, hidden away in her room), but a canvas for every single person in this city and beyond to marvel at.

You feel sick, your stomach cramping up badly as you squeeze her hand, your own shock fighting to get past the cotton in your head. This can't be happening. Your eyes flicker over the groups of people standing in front of blown up pictures of your cunt, stuffed with various toys and items, a whole wall full of unflattering close-ups that lead into a full body shot of you tied to a bed, wrists and ankles held by cuffs, arms and legs spread, as thin metal chains hang from the ceiling, attached to the little clamps that are holding your nipples and your pussy lips.

You ache just looking at it, your breasts tensing up. Your gaze wanders further, to the next wall, this one dedicated to your ass and various things being shoved into it. You feel like crying, and it gets only worse when you realize there are TV screens mounted between the pictures. While the photos show a moment captured in time, the screens show videos of how those moments came to be: you see the white-gloved hand and how it moves various objects in and out of your holes, a sickening motion, in and out, and you notice there's even sound, overlapping moans and whines and lewd squelching noises, echoing from a total of six TVs arranged around the room.

Your stomach drops, your throat tensing up, you can barely breathe. And the people in the room seem to realize that it's you who is being portrayed like this, and they stare at you, some with neutral looks, some leering and excited, some with disapproving or arrogant scowls. You press closer to Mistress as she stops in the middle of the room. She looks at you then, a soft smile on her face. You feel like fainting, it's all too much, but then she reaches her free hand up to caress your warm cheek, and you freeze, staring at her, the panic in your head pausing under the touch.

“What's the matter, pet?” she whispers. “Don't be shy now, you're a star, my dear,” she adds, leaning down to brush her lips against your ear. “They are all here for you. Just for you...”

You frown slightly, trying to focus on her instead of the noises around you, the sounds coming from the TVs, the chatter and laughter and hushed whispers. Your heart is beating in your throat, right against the tight collar, your muscles clenching around the plug and around nothing, your body seemingly adjusting to your surroundings while your mind still fights whatever is going on here. You cling to the tall woman in front of you, your eyes pleading her to take you back, take you away, stop this humiliation.

But she only tilts her head, her thumb moving along your bottom lip, before she says something that makes you freeze, both in shock and in the strangely familiar urge to please.

“On your knees.”

And you do as you're told. Of course you do. You go down, perched on the balls of your feet with your heels pressing into your rear, and you square your shoulders and fold your arms behind your back, pushing your chest out, looking up at her with your eyes glazing over and your mind going empty.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my dear guests,” Mistress then raises her voice, her gaze still fixed on you as she addresses the people around you. “Welcome to another night of sinful sensations, tantalizing touches, unknown urges and frivolous fun. Please gather around, don't be shy,” she adds, finally looking away from you and around the room, beckoning the strangers closer, her arms spread wide as she smiles her beautiful smile. “The show will begin shortly. My assistants will bring you an assortment of objects, and I ask you to choose one each, and wait your turn. Oh and don't forget to take a pair of gloves, we don't want to leave any compromising evidence, now do we?”

She laughs, and several people join in, while you kneel before her, focusing on her, trying to ignore the shuffle around you. Your heart is thundering in your chest, your head spinning out of control. And despite the humiliating nature of whatever is happening, you feel your arousal drenching your underwear, a sticky slick that rivals the hot tears burning in your eyes. Your chest rises and falls as you breathe rapidly through your nose, your lips pressed into a thin line to keep them from trembling.

The hand on your elbow startles you, but it's only Mistress as she urges you into a standing position again. She gives you a gentle nod, and you follow on shaking legs as she walks to a strange contraption in the middle of the room, some sort of bench in an X-shape, right in the center, surrounded by the pictures of you, by the videos of an anonymous hand shoving phallic objects into your holes, the sounds that echo from the screens pointed directly at you, a weird garbling of moans and helpless cries, overlapping in a disorienting fashion.

A horrible vertigo grips you as you stumble forward, gently pushed by the woman behind you, and before you know it, you end up lying on your back, a soft cushion beneath you, your head hanging off the edge while your legs are raised up, your limbs fitted perfectly into the shape of the bench-like thing. As you look up, you realize there's a large mirror right above you, and you meet your own frightened gaze, eyes wide, pupils dilated, a strange gloss in them that could either be tears or something else entirely. While your legs are spread (and tied at the ankles by a pair of unknown women) and your arms are arranged in a T-pose (with your wrists being tied down as well), the rest of your body is secured by a large leather strap spanning over your stomach.

You struggle slightly, testing your restraints, but nothing budges. Though instead of fueling the panic settling in your belly, you feel weirdly relaxed, soothed by the way you cannot move, knowing you can't escape. And in the back of your cloudy mind you also know: you don't want to anyway. Your gaze wanders to the tall woman standing next to you, smiling down, a camera in her hands.

“You're doing great,” she says softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. “My good girl.” Her praise burns through the uneasiness, silences the distress to some extent. Her hand moves around your head, lifting it slightly as her eyes move away from you to something you can't see from your position. And you don't have to, you can feel it.

It's a gag, and as soon as it comes into your view, you feel your heart accelerating. There are two dildos attached to it, one pointing inwards and the other pointing outwards, and the mere idea of having that thing in your mouth and down your throat makes you tense up badly. A whine escapes you before a sigh sounds from beside you. Mistress puts her camera down and steps closer, taking the gag from whoever wanted to shove it into you. She meets your eyes, and even though she's upside down, you calm a little when you look at her.

“You can do this, pet,” she says as she moves the tip of one dildo against your lips. “You've done this before. Many times. You like having things down your throat, remember?”

Her words sink into your muddy mind, burning through the doubts, and even though it feels like an impossible thing to do, you part your lips and allow the object into your mouth. She smiles at you, slowly pushing the silicone toy deeper, it teases the back of your throat, and to your own surprise slips right past your gag reflex, stretching your throat, bulging your neck, sitting tight against the collar. You stare up at her, tears burning in your eyes as she fastens the leather strap around your head, keeping the gag in place.

“Good girl,” she coos, caressing your warm cheeks. “You didn't even gag. I'm so proud of you.”

A weird warmth settles in your stomach, as you watch her, the other dildo attached to the gag slightly obscuring your view. Its sight should disturb you, knowing what it is for, but you're eerily calm, focused on breathing through your nose as the object in your throat just sits there, pressing on your tongue, with saliva already dripping past your lips (the wide leather band of the gag sits loosely against your mouth, allowing you to part your lips and let it drip), and you know you'd only make it worse if you panicked now.

And somehow the image of her riding your face like this gives you a strange kind of comfort, definitely distracting you enough to ignore whatever happens around you. Subdued voices echo through the room, it's eerily quiet, apart from the continuous moans and whines coming from the TVs, sounds you made before, apparently, and you realize you won't be able to make them tonight. Closing your eyes for a moment, letting the tears press past your lashes, you focus on them, trying to imagine (remember) the scenarios that caused you to sound like this.

You've only seen the pictures, you have no memories of doing any of those things, so you can only assume what it must feel like to be stuffed and used like this. Your body, however, seems to remember it just fine. Arousal pools in your core, drenching your thong, perking up your nipples that strain against the fabric of your bra and top, while goosebumps ripple over your bare arms.

There's more shuffling around you, but you don't want to open your eyes. You can't. It doesn't feel real if you keep them closed, not as intimidating, and it's easier to handle, or so you tell yourself. It's actually strange just how calm you are, strapped to this weird table/bench with your arms and legs spread and tied to individual parts of it, allowing people to stand between them and right next to you, and you can feel them, their warmth and presence, anticipation in the air. Your heart beats faster.

Suddenly you flinch, eyes flying open, a muffled groan escaping you that almost makes you gag around the dildo in your throat, as you feel hands stroking along your arms, in an almost sensual way, synchronized left and right, and the touches end when they shove an object into each hand. You don't dare to turn your head so you look up at the mirrored ceiling, and you realize they've put a pair of thick black dildos into your hands. With how your wrists are tied, you cannot move them, only open and close your fingers around the toys.

You frown slightly, and your confusion is answered when Mistress' velvety voice echoes through the room. “Ladies, some of you are in for a surprise tonight. There are numbers on the base of your selected toys, and if these range from 1 to 5, you are invited to have a special seat on our special Toy. Yes, only the ladies, sorry gentlemen, you can still watch, and if you grabbed one of the special toys, I ask you to give it to a woman of your choice, if they're willing, of course. This is a night of sinful sensations, but consent is of utmost importance.”

Her words sit heavy in your stomach, and you wonder if you really consented to this as well. You can't remember. But then again, there's nothing you can do about it now.

She continues, her voice louder as chatter and shuffling fill the room. “Ladies, if you like, come closer and assume your positions. Dim the lights, please.”

Around you the bright lights turn down, but there are still two spots directed right at the center, illuminating your body and enough of your limbs, but when a bunch of women approach the table, you can barely see their faces. They are guided to your hands and feet, and while the dildos in your clammy hands make sense, you wonder what's the special seat by your feet, until you realize they're probably supposed to sit on the pointy tips of your high heels.

A strange heat crashes through you. It's one thing to imagine Mistress using you, but complete strangers, getting off by humping your shoes of all things and riding the toys you're holding for them? But then nothing seems to surprise you anymore after walking into a gallery filled with pictures of your body, where a willing audience waits for a night of debauchery (and willing and eager they seem with how packed the place is). You're still glad when you see a familiar face looking down at you (upside down again) as Mistress approaches your head.

She caresses your cheeks and wipes a bit of drool off your chin as she smiles down at you. Her hand then moves to the dildo attached to your gag, and the sudden touch moves the one in your throat, pushing it a little deeper. Tears burn under your lashes, but you force yourself to remain calm, breathe through your nose, ignore the obstructing object stuck in your mouth. You see her gliding her fist over the phallic toy, the motion somewhat soothing as you focus on it.

“My dear guests, you came here for a special adventure,” her voice fills the quiet room as she starts talking to the people gathered around the table. You keep your eyes on her as she speaks. “This is art, my friends. Art found in devotion, in submission, in using a canvas of flesh and bones, using it, expanding it, stretching the limits of what's possible, of what's right, of what's conventional. I invite you to explore your own limits tonight, find pleasure in using this devoted pet of mine.”

You blink slowly, mesmerized by her words, but they still poke at the buried confusion and doubts in your mind. That little voice of protest, though, is quickly squashed again by the overwhelming cotton filling your head, a strange sort of excitement mixed with fear and uncertainty, held together by a warm feeling like a caress, a praising word, a soft smile, a gentle touch. It's enough to ignore the meaning behind her words, as straight-forward as they may be.

“You may use her in any way you want, within the confines of the scene. Use your toys, arrange her however you like – ask for assistance if necessary, this table can be moved, allowing you access to both of her holes. After the first round, we will turn her around, so make use of her perky little breasts while you can. Oh, and if you'd like to cut off her clothes, my assistants will provide you with the necessary tools. But enough instructions. I invite you to enjoy yourself. This is art, my friends,” she repeats, her voice rising. “Use it!”

The air changes around you, allowing those doubts to come back after all. More tears gather in your eyes. You feel strangely heavy, pushed into the soft cushions, your restraints cutting into your skin, the dildo in your throat pressing against your airways, making it even harder to breathe. Panic settles hot in your stomach, while cold sweat covers your skin. And no matter how woozy and dizzy you feel, you can't completely ignore the fear crashing through you. But it's not only fear, it's bated anticipation. What will happen next? What will these people do to you?

Of course the pictures and videos all around you give you enough hints, but you felt weirdly disconnected from those. This, however, is real. The gloved hands touching your body are real, the dildos between your fingers are real, the warmth of people standing close but in the shadows is real. Hushed voices fill the room, so many strangers, and you can only hear them, see their hands and the objects they chose in the reflection above you (and some of them make you really anxious).

You want to swallow, but you can't, your saliva running mercilessly past your lips and over your cheeks, and with how your head is angled back, it gathers warm and hot in the shell of your ears and in your hairline. Your fingers twitch around the hard silicone in your grasp, your hips jerking slightly when you feel hands rubbing along your inner thighs.

You know you should be freaking out, but again, you can't. You are so calm it scares you, only letting your body react to what's happening, while your mind has become silent, shut up by whatever is swirling through your system, numbed by whatever was in your water. You blink slowly, focusing your eyes on the dildo protruding from the gag, wondering what it will be like to have someone ride this thing when it's attached to your face like that.

You don't seem to have to wait long when someone steps up to your head, but before you can take a closer look, you feel something soft being put over your eyes, taking another sense from you, a blindfold, and you'd sigh if you could, both slightly relieved you don't have to look up a stranger's crotch as they ride you, but also weirdly disappointed that you cannot look up a stranger's crotch as they ride you. With the room plunged into darkness, all you can do now is listen, listen and feel.

For now they all just seem to explore your body, hands sliding along your sides, up and down your legs, over your clothed chest, some are tickling you, or trying to, as you find yourself unable to react to those teases in your armpits or against your ribs. You're glad you're too far gone to care, because you just know it'd be torture otherwise.

It's almost relaxing, in a way, to be stroked like that, caressed and touched, but as it happens all over your body, all at once, you find yourself quickly overwhelmed by it too. Not being able to see who touches you and where makes it all the more intense. Breathing harder through your nose, your throat working around the dildo stuck in it, you try to focus on the steady beat of your heart, slightly erratic, but not as panicked as it should be.

It almost lulls you for a moment, drowning out the hushed voices around you, the noises of past-you being stuffed full and moaning about it, but when you feel something cold dragging between your breasts, you flinch nonetheless, this time straining your neck, triggering your gag reflex. Your body jerks, your throat clenching around the toy, spit and bile shooting up your esophagus, filling your already filled mouth. You gag again, and panic crashes through you as you can't seem to get rid of all that saliva.

Luckily you feel a pair of hands on your head, turning it so it can drip past your trembling lips, easing the pressure in your throat. Tears burn in your eyes, soaked up by the blindfold. Something like a wet cloth wipes over your cheek, and you relax slowly.

“Easy, pet, everything's alright,” you hear Mistress' soft voice close to you, calming you instantly. “You're doing great. No need to panic.” Her hand moves along your neck, teasing the collar, pressing slightly onto the object in your throat. “Just breathe, it's fine... you can do this. Like you always did, okay? You love this, remember?”

You don't, but you feel too dizzy to fight that sentiment. Your head feels lighter, breathing works, but it's a struggle nonetheless. It helps to be praised and reassured, though, and you focus on the fact that Mistress is right there, looking out for you, making sure you're doing okay. It's a warming sensation in your belly – that almost distracts you from the colder sensation of something gliding under your top and bra.

It feels like metal, and when you hear a quiet snip-snap sound, you know it's a pair of scissors, cutting away your clothes to expose you to your surroundings. As if being strapped to a table and wearing a dildo gag isn't humiliating enough, you realize you are now naked in front of a bunch of strangers whose hands don't miss a beat before they grope at your freed breasts, squeezing and kneading, palms pressing down, fingers pinching your nipples until they hurt.

You let out a muffled whine, squirming against the onslaught of touches, but they keep going, pulling and poking, the squeaky surface of their latex gloves rubbing harshly against your skin. As they do, the scissors move lower, and the same snip-snap sound comes to your ears when your panties fall away. At least they leave your garter belt and stockings, giving you the illusion of still wearing something. But now your cunt is out in the open, and the first hands seem very eager to explore it properly.

Suddenly the table beneath you moves, and you feel your blood shooting into your head as your hips are being lifted while your head is lowered even more. Vertigo grabs you, sending shivers down your limbs, increasing the head spinning and stomach clenching. In this new position, your rear hangs off the edge of the cushion, allowing the bystanders to grab your ass and grope more of your soft flesh. Most of them do, but some go straight to the exposed base of the butt plug, pulling and poking it mercilessly.

You keep squirming, the strap around your stomach holding you down but not enough, allowing you to circle your hips in a grinding motion that seems to entertain the people around you. While the voices have been hushed before, you can now hear snippets of what they're saying – and you somehow wished you wouldn't.

“Look at her, so eager.”

“Can't wait to be stuffed, huh, little slut?”

“Wonder how many she can take. Did they say there was a limit?”

Your breathing quickens, rapid puffs through your nose, chest rising and falling faster against all the hands gripping at you. Your stomach flutters against the tight leather strap, your thighs trembling slightly, toes curling in your shoes. Between all the comments, laughter and other noises, you suddenly hear the faint clicking of a camera, and you just know that Mistress is in the midst of producing a new line of degrading pictures of you.

Somehow, you couldn't care less about that. Being exposed to a room full of strangers, groped and touched and poked at, feels much worse than having aesthetically pleasing pictures taken of your body, though to have lasting evidence of this experience isn't too nice either. But there's nothing you can do anyway, so you focus back on trying to get enough oxygen into your burning lungs, trying to fight the vertigo making your head swirl, just trying to live through it all.

While your nipples are being pinched, your boobs pulled into two different directions, sending sparks down your body, you feel a gloved hand on your throbbing clit, poking and prodding, giving enough pressure to make your thighs twitch, but not enough to ease the tension in your lower stomach. You try to move your hips, find at least a bit of relief, but instead of allowing you the motion, you feel a stinging slap on your mound, then three more in rapid succession, causing you to gasp and ultimately gag around the dildo in your throat as various pains crash through your body, making it jolt against your restraints.

Your head is being supported again, turned to the side to allow the spit to drain from your mouth, as you hear a low voice above you. “Gentlemen, if I may remind you, impact play is not on the agenda until round three. Please be patient.”

You hear hushed voices in response, shuffling noises growing louder before they disappear. You vehemently ignore her mentioning something about 'round three'. A new hand comes to your cunt, much gentler, a soft stroking rhythm of gloved fingers that ease your rapidly beating heart. You relax again, leaning into the hands holding your head before they leave you too. You hear the shutter of the camera again, much closer, while the hand on your center starts parting your labia, slowly rubbing up and down, and you can't help the muffled moans slipping past your gag.

Your hips undulate against the stroking fingers, and this time, they allow it, leaning into it, letting you decide how you want to be touched, at least to an extent. Your hands claw at the dildos you're supposed to hold, the special seats that have yet to be claimed, as you feel your stomach tensing up, the friction of the fingers against your clit the relief you have been looking for all night.

They move with you now, slipping between your slick, poking at the sensitive bud, and you feel your heart accelerating, your breath stuck in your throat, your muscles tightening, your back arching against the leather strap, you're so close, so close, and you almost expect to be left hanging again as it drags on and on, but then... finally... the fingers pinch your clit so hard you can't even handle all of your body's reactions.

First you inhale sharply, on the verge of screaming, tilting your neck in a way that makes you gag, and as your stomach jerks, your hips buck up, your legs kicking in their restraints, toes curling painfully, your muscles contract, clenching hard around nothing and around the plug in your butt, and you come, violently at first, convulsing uncontrollably, before you're swept away by a wave of pleasure that crashes through your body gently, a reverberating tingling from the top of your head all the way down to your cramping toes.

“Well done,” coos a voice in your ear, a hand stroking your sweat-slick face. “And congratulations to the lady who was the first to make her come. If you like her to return the favor, you may choose a special seat now.”

Your breaths are still labored through your nose, but barely any oxygen seems to make it into your lungs with how the gag sits in your throat and how your heartbeat throbs in your jugular, right against the collar, further tightening your neck. Your head is really spinning now, as does the room, seemingly. You're almost glad you're bound the way you are.

But despite the warming feeling of your orgasm, there's something cold sitting deep in your guts. Did you even have permission to come? You can't remember Mistress mentioning anything like that. But then again, she did just praise you for it, didn't she? It's a strange fear that overcomes you, it doesn't really make sense, it's just a feeling, a distant memory of... pain? Of disappointment and shame? Whatever it is, it makes you furrow your brows under the blindfold as new tears seep into the fabric.

Suddenly you feel a pair of hands on your head, someone unfastens the blindfold, and as soon as it's gone, you blink helplessly into the light projected at you. Another light flashes next to you, and you realize you've been photographed. The thought makes it all worse, causing you to really start crying now. A vulnerable moment like this, forever captured and burned onto whatever medium she is using tonight.

You sniffle pathetically, and as you do, you realize that your nose starts stuffing up. Your eyes widen, your breaths hectic as panic grips your limbs. Not good. You look around, trying to find Mistress, but she's moved on to stand by your side focused on the fluttering of your stomach and the way your cunt glistens, her camera clicking away furiously. You see shadows all around you, and white-gloved hands reaching for you, still groping your soft flesh wherever they can.

You try to speak through your gag, but not even the muffled noises you create are loud enough to get through the hushed chatter around you. You struggle on the table, trying to get anyone's attention, while you get dizzier and dizzier, less and less oxygen making it through your nose. Your last resort is to make yourself gag, hoping that someone would notice and help you in your predicament.

Lightheaded as you are, you turn your head, try to strain your neck, force the dildo deeper into your constricted throat, but your muscles seem too lax to react, your gag reflex silenced like the rest of your body. You can barely move, you feel so weak.

Something moves against your twitching fingers, something warm and solid and slightly wet, and you see the shape of someone straddling your bound wrist, skin and soft fabric brushing your cold hand that's tight around the base of the dildo you're supposed to hold. You try to move it, but whoever assumes their special seat right now is more focused on their own enjoyment than your growing distress.

Tears burn in your eyes, saliva coats your cold skin, you feel heavy. The noises around you grow quieter until everything is just gone. No more lights, no more hands, no more lewd sounds echoing through the room. Just darkness. And no air.

1 🎀 2 🎀 3 🎀 4

End notes: So, uh, sorry? I don't know where this vision came from. My mind is deep and dirty, as you know. I hope the night of sinful sensations, tantalizing touches, unknown urges and frivolous fun (aka STUF²... I feel so clever XD) didn't traumatize you too much, because, uh, the next chapter may be even worse. And don't worry, we're getting to the wlw smut soon enough, I promise! (Oh, and Reader is fine, of course!)

Thank you for reading! Next chapter on Saturday!

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

89 notes · View notes